


Songbird Sorrows

by Kaz_Langston



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Established Relationship, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obedience, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24474805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: Six months after the mountain, and the end of their twenty year partnership, Jaskier finally tries to move on. Unfortunately his paramour’s sister isn’t having any of it. When Geralt arrives, he finds a bard who won’t even acknowledge his existence, and though his apology seems to go down well enough there’s definitely still something wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 623





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started off with one scene, accidentally wrote an episode 6 fix-it with smut. Whoops. 
> 
> [Very] mild dubcon is in chapter 2, I'll add a note.
> 
> Thank you to all those who have kindly left comments and kudos, I treasure every single one.

Perched on a bar stool in a pose he hopes is artfully tragic, rather than just actually tragic, Jaskier plucks mournfully at the lute strings. He knows he'll have to liven it up if he's any hope of making enough coin to cover food and supplies to the next town, and he's gone hungry often enough in the last few months that he doesn't particularly fancy doing it again, but he allows himself to wallow just a bit before he performs.

His hair hangs too long around his face, though he'd managed to brush it this morning so at least it's silky soft, and his doublet is clean, if a little plain. At least his lute is polished to a high shine, rich linseed oil giving it the lustre it deserves. When he can't get himself together enough to write, at least he can do the mindless task of polishing.

There's a brief murmur in the room as he finishes off his ale in preparation for really playing, and he looks up to see a dark haired woman settling herself at a table, flanked by two large men in matching light armour who can only be bodyguards.

She's gorgeous, flawlessly beautiful in a scandalously low cut emerald dress, and he's curious at the quiet lurch in his stomach; it's been a while ( _six months_ ) since he's had even a remote interest in anyone. Perhaps it's the danger of it, he thinks bitterly. Two bodyguards aren't quite the same threat as a single witcher - they certainly aren't likely to do the crippling emotional damage - but it's a similar vibe. Twenty years, and he's become accustomed to flirting with danger with his... flirting.

He coughs a little and clambers to his feet, shaking off his sadness and replacing it with the cloak of stagecraft as he strides forward with a grin. "My wonderful ladies and gentlefolk, I'm the bard Jaskier, and I'm delighted to be playing for your ears tonight. I do take requests," and he offers a suggestive wink which gets him a little laugh, as it usually does, though the woman he has his eye on doesn't join in, "So please - allow me to perform for you!"

He leaps into his first piece, a relaxed ballad full of intrigue and drama, perfect for gauging the mood of a room - love songs or bawdy crowdpleasers or cheerful jigs - and prances around the room as though he's not hollow and broken inside.

When he stops for a drink, he shoots the lady a lopsided smile and a coquettish look under dark lashes as he staggers to the bar. She's down to just the one guard now - he watched as the other man left earlier, satisfied by the calm atmosphere - and he's hoping that when the remaining guard goes for a piss he might be able to swoop in. She has to be a noble, given her silken dress and the guards, but she's been giving him the eye since his third song and he's fairly confident he might be in with a chance.

"Don't do it lad," the innkeeper cautions him, murmuring low as he scrubs too hard at a flagon with his eyes downcast. "You won't like what her sister does."

Jaskier flashed him a bold grin. "I've dealt with my share of angry siblings." Besides, the woman's good looking but clearly no youth kept in trust by a watchful older sibling. There's nothing wrong about trying his luck.

"Not like this you haven't." The man flicks a look at the elegant lady where she perches, eyes fixed longingly on Jaskier. "But on your own head be it."

He returns to his set, but when a half hour in the final guard leaves he takes his chance, offering round an empty mug to the whole room with a grin, just so happening to end up at the lady's table. He tips the coin neatly into his purse, pleased with the new jingling weight of it, and bows fluidly low, enough exaggeration to it that she smiles at his flirtation.

"Might I suggest that my lady would appreciate a... private performance?"

She laughs white teethed and wide as she takes his hand. The whole room watches them go, and it's a little disconcerting, but she's certainly willing and there's no rattling of swords behind him, so he leads her upstairs and tries not to think about the low muttering. It's been more than his usual dry spell, and now he's finally taken a step it seems silly to stop for some last minute nerves.

His room is plain, and she takes it in with faint curiosity, clearly used to finer things than a cheap room at an inn. He leads her to the bed, sits first and pulls her gently down beside him. "You are an absolute vision, my lady, and I would be honoured to know your name."

She blushes a little at the flattery, though she's certainly old enough and pretty enough to have heard it all before. "Zuzanna."

"A beautiful name for a beautiful woman." Her small hand still rests in his, and Jaskier raises it to brush a gentle kiss against knuckles that are smooth and clean and have never seen a day of work.

He meets soft doe eyes and she smiles at him, leaning forward. Curling his hand against the sumptuous wave of her hair, he offers a gentle kiss, and she presses back against him with urgency.

There's a commotion downstairs, but he's too busy with a hand on her sweetly curved waist and her hand sliding steadily up his thigh to pay any attention.

The door slams open, and before the bang of it bouncing off the wall has finished echoing around the room Jaskier's on his feet between the bed and the door, Zuzanna tucked behind him.

The bulky, shaven headed guard at the front has an insignia on his sleeve that surely marks him as the leader, and he speaks with a hand on his sword. "Are you well, my lady?"

Jaskier glances over his shoulder. She's suddenly the picture of a rich, sulky noble, pouting and arms crossed, and he's faintly disappointed at the transformation. "Fossard, I'm just having a bit of fun! You don't always have to be like this."

Fossard's face twists in righteous fury as he turns his attention to the bard. "How dare you touch her!"

"No offence meant, I assure you," Jaskier offers, bowing low and obsequious as he backs subtly towards the window. They're only one floor up, he's jumped worse, and he can come back for his belongings tomorrow. "Perhaps my lady was confused as to my intentions-"

"I wasn't confused," she snaps out, "I know exactly what I want and my bitch of a sister doesn't get to tell me otherwise!"

One of the guards goes to her, whispering low and urgent in her ear, and her face twists unhappily, though she doesn't speak in Jaskier's defense.

Fossard has an expression of quiet menace as he bears down on the bard, though he doesn't draw his sword. "Everyone else in this thrice damned town knows better than to touch her, but perhaps they could do with a reminder."

Jaskier grins nervously, feeling for the window behind him and catching the edge of a shutter, the rough wood harsh on his fingertips. He eases slowly sideways, and as the guard steps forward he yanks open the shutters, flinging them wide.

He almost makes it, shoulders and one leg out the window, but then there's a bruising grip on his other leg and he's yanked unceremoniously back inside with a yelp, ending up in the floor in a heap. A boot to the gut makes him groan, and another kick to his face snaps his head back hard enough for the world to spin. He can feel the blood of a split lip trickling down his chin, an unpleasant tickle, and he spits out a glob of coppery saliva onto the floorboards.

"I'm sorry! I didn't realise she-"

His protests are cut off by more blows, until he's curled up in a pathetic ball against the wall with his arms wrapped protectively around his head. It's not the worst beating he's had, but it's definitely up there.

When they stop he's hauled back to his feet by uncaring hands, though he can't quite manage to stand under his own power and his feet stutter along the floor as they pull him from the room.

He's dragged down the stairs and through the tavern, limp and bleeding. No one meets his eye.

*-*-*-*-*

Geralt isn't coming. That ship has long sailed, six months ago on a windswept mountaintop.

His ribs are throbbing, and his shoulders ache where his arms are wrenched up behind him, but there's been no more kicking since they strung him up so it's something of a relief. He's tried meditating, but he hadn't been able to manage more than ten minutes back when Geralt attempted to teach it to him a decade ago and he can't manage even two minutes now without his thoughts scattering in all directions.

He's been left alone for a while, and when the door creaks open he can't help but jump.

Guards file into the room; the captain from earlier leads the way but now there's a different woman with him, with the same devastating beauty as before but a sweet snub nose that looks out of place against her icy expression.

"My lady, such a pleasure to see such a handsome face! I can only apologise for my appearance, I've been having rather a rough evening."

She doesn't smile at his attempt at charm, instead standing to one side as the captain steps forward to wrap a large fist in strands of Jaskier's hair to haul him upright. He flinches back at the flash of a thin steel knife, but trapped as he is he can't move far, and Fossard holds him steady.

"My sister is not to be sullied by any man." Her voice is low, and the fury in it sends chills down the bard's spine. He resists the sudden mad urge to suggest her sister might appreciate a woman.

"You were seen touching her. Escorting her to a private bedroom. Attempting to _tarnish_ her. A score of people saw you flout my stipulations."

"My lady, if I'd only have known-" He tries to weasel away, offering a hint of a smile in an attempt to soften her fury, but if anything her face closes off further and his heart sinks in his chest, gut lurching as it dawns on him quite what a predicament he's managed to end up in. The smile drops from his face; he can feel his lip tremble and bites at it to keep it still.

"I have no choice but to make an example of you."

The thin knife is suddenly held to his cheek, and when Fossard touches it to the delicate skin of his cheekbone Jaskier whimpers and closes his eyes, though he doesn't dare move away. "I didn't know, I swear, my lady! I can serve you well as a bard, sing your praises to all those who would listen, just please, don't do this, I've learned my lesson!"

There's no hint of softening, and when the guard speaks it's gruff, not a hint of sympathy, reinforced with a tightening grip on his hair. "Face or hand, bard. Am I going to take your looks or take a finger?"

He can't help another thin whine.

Not his hand. Never his hand. It doesn't matter what he looks like - it _doesn't_ \- but if he can't play... no.

Jaskier's voice catches in his throat as he whispers, "My... my face." He grits his teeth to brace for it, but Fossard sighs out a little laugh, clearly as wicked as his noble lady. "Ask me for it. Ask me to wound your pretty face."

This is _cruelty_. A tear slips from one closed eye, and Jaskier's chest is heaving. "Please m-mark my face."

"Pretty face. And it's _sir_."

A choking sob.

"Please mark my pretty face. Sir." It's quiet, stained with tears and trembling, and the captain offers a grunt of approval.

"Very good, little songbird." The countess' voice is satisfied, but _songbird_ cuts at him as sharp as any knife; one of the few softnesses Geralt had shown. "There's hope for you yet. Now stay very, very still."

The tip of the knife presses in a little, though it's so sharp it hardly needs any pressure to split the delicate skin. Jaskier moans between clenched teeth, low and animal, as blood pools and spills a single drop down his cheek.

"Wait." Her voice is commanding, but thoughtful. The pressure lifts, though the half inch wound stings.

He whimpers at the brief reprieve, squints one eye open to view his saviour.

"Perhaps it's a shame to mark such a pretty thing, and you told me he sang so nicely too." Dark eyes glitter with predatory hunger. "I'll speak to the mage, see if we can't have something done."

"Yes," Jaskier huffs out eagerly, light headed and desperate. "I've been educated by the very finest on the continent, I can compose for you, play or sing for you, whatever you like, my good lady!"

She gives him a desultory look. "You'll do exactly what you're told, boy."

"Yes, my lady, of course." He dips his head deferentially, dizzy with relief.

Her voice rings out again. "Leave him. Either the mage will do his job, or you can have him."

The man with his hand twisted in Jaskier's hair bows without letting go, and he's tugged forward against the chains, straining his shoulders. "My lady."

She leaves, and Jaskier offers his tormentor a surprisingly cheerful grin, marred by the crimson trickle down his cheek. "That's rather more promising than I'd come to expect, really."

There's a blow to his gut reminiscent of the Butcher of Blaviken himself, and he would have keeled over if he could. Instead, the chains hold him tight and he's forced to wheeze through the agony, head low. He takes a handful more blows and then a final one to his knee that has him crumpling and yelling, before he's unfastened from the restraints and left to topple to the ground.

He lies there, groaning, trying valiantly not to throw up despite the ache in his gut, and doesn't bother watching his captors leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for specifics on the mild dubcon.

From the bowing and scraping Geralt can already tell this place is going to irritate him beyond reason, but the fee on the noticeboard had been substantial and after a few months of slim pickings he could do with the coin.

A footman announces him to the room, and the countess he's come to see waits in a great throne at the other side of the room. It's a long walk meant to intimidate, but he won't be cowed by silly noble expressions of power and takes great strides that eat up the ground.

There's a handful of people gathered around the edges of the room, some in court finery and some in plain outfits that mark them out as servants. It's with a little unease that he notices that the servants have their faces covered in masquerade masks, but who is he to question how nobles treat their staff? He can certainly judge - too easy to let a stranger slip in disguised, and it feels dehumanising which always sets his teeth on edge - but never question. The masks remind him a little of his first meeting with Yennefer and he wonders briefly whether there's a link between the women, but then dismisses the thought as foolish whimsy. At least they aren't all naked.

The overpowering reek of oils doesn't help his mood, the rich fragrances sinking into his nose and lungs, and if he'd been alone rather than being stared at by a ton of people he might have rubbed at his nose or sneezed himself blind.

He offers a polite half bow as he reaches the dais where she lounges.

"Lady Kalina."

"Geralt of Rivia. A witcher in my halls, how very exciting." She sounds intrigued, and almost surprised, although it was her household name on the notice and she's certainly had word of his arrival; he was kept waiting for nearly an hour.

The countess waves a bejewelled hand at a group of plainly dressed men and women who stand watching her with fixed gazes through intricately carved masks. One of the men comes forward in, head politely dipped as he listens to her.

Two simple braids, sweeping back from his temples to fasten at his nape with an elegant silver tie, form a dark crown; his plain white shirt flickers yellow in the candlelight and a simple leather strap holds a lute to his back. Between the silver clip and the costly pearly white silk chemise, the servant's outfit is another ostentatious display of wealth, and Geralt mentally raises his fee.

"We have a guest, little songbird. Make sure your music is to his liking."

The man bows deeply to her, not raising his head or meeting her gaze, and then turns to Geralt with a bow precisely low enough to be polite. Not very low at all, given that he's a witcher and certainly doesn't register in the levels of nobility, but better than nothing.

The man takes a seat by her side on a low stool clearly designed for such an occasion, and something about the scent of him makes Geralt take another, deeper breath. He smells sun warmed meadows and a familiar sweet musk, though the natural scent is disguised under the reek of the room's oils and a sharp, bitter note.

_Jaskier_.

Eight months apart and he'd know him anywhere. He thinks eight years apart, or twenty or a hundred, and it still wouldn't be enough for him to forget the scent of his companion.

There's no spark of recognition from the man, no lingering on Geralt's familiar clothing as he bows, but as he brings the lute around to play he lifts his head enough for Geralt to see the blue of his eyes. There's no way he couldn't have seen the witcher, not when he strode the length of the whole damn room.

So that's how it's going to be. Silent treatment. Well it's nothing he'd not hoped for a hundred times before over their time together. Blessed silence.

He tries very hard to focus on the beautiful, powerful woman in front of him - the woman who's going to _pay_ him - but every so often he can't help but let his gaze drift over to where Jaskier sits, head low, plucking lute strings peaceably. He looks well; perhaps a little thin and a little dull around his eyes, and the long hair is certainly new, but there's nothing to suggest he's spent the last few months moping. Clearly he's found himself a comfortable position in this new court. The servant garb is odd, but Jaskier's complained before about how some nobility see bards, so it's not too unexpected.

After a few minutes of pleasantries, as he tries to tease out the details of the contract without doing anything so politically inept as ask, a crease settles on the countess's elegant brow.

"Songbird."

The lute ceases, and it feels like there's a tension in the air.

"You're distracting my new friend. Go away."

Without a word Jaskier stands, offers her a stiff bow, and scurries back to the shadows, lute back over his shoulder and hands neatly clasped behind him.

"Where were we, witcher?"

*-*-*-*-*

He doesn't get the information on the creature that evening, though that's how it is sometimes with nobles. They like to talk around the subject, play nice with the fascinating mutant until they're bored of him, and then send him out to do his job and fuck off.

He does, however, get the offer of a room, and a space in the stable for Roach. When he leaves the great hall he casts an eye back over the masked servants, and though he thinks he can make out Jaskier's form there's no watchful blue eyes cast in his direction, no mournful twist of pretty lips, and a seed of irritation buries itself in his chest.

His head clears quickly enough once he's outside, and the hay-and-horse scent of well-kept stables is reassuring as he fetches his bags from Roach's back. She seems delighted at the prospect of a night of comfort, ignoring him in favour of burying her nose in the handful of oats he scatters for her.

Geralt grumbles to himself at the second rejection of the evening, but he can't blame her any more than he can blame Jaskier.

A servant - white silk shirt, elegant mask - shows him to a room on the second floor. It seems the oils are less present in the rest of the house, which is a relief; otherwise he'd likely have found himself sleeping in the stables for respite.

Piling his bags against a wall, Geralt makes himself at home in front of the fire with sword and whetstone until a knock at the door stirs him.

It's not Jaskier, he can already tell that from the polite knock, but it's still a disappointment when he opens the door to find two stocky, masked servants with steaming buckets of water. They fill the bath in near silence, and it's only once they've gone that Geralt realises he hadn't picked up a single sour note of fear from either of them. From any of the servants, in fact.

Perhaps Jaskier's been talking to them, and that thought warms his heart as much as the piping hot bath water warms his skin.

*-*-*-*-*

It occurs to him that he could seek Jaskier out, apologise, beg forgiveness, but some part of him that's been worn down by months of war and dodging Nilfgaard and mourning their partnership just can't face the thought of going to him only to be turned away.

He spends the next day exploring the town, and people avoid him as they always do. It's worse than some places, better than others, and at least no one spits at him.

The apothecary has some ingredients he's after, and he spends a little more precious coin on that. As he turns to leave something catches him unawares and he blinks, nostrils flaring. There, amongst the floral oils, little glass bottles with elegant stoppers, is something that smells all but identical to something Jaskier had liked to wear once upon a time. On a foolish whim, he picks it up in a hand made clumsy by some foreign feeling, and asks the price.

It's too much, particularly for something he'll likely never have the chance - or the balls - to give.

He pays. Tucks it away.

Ignores the throb of his heart in his breast.

He's invited to dinner at the castle, and the thought of seeing Jaskier is just as tempting as the food. He dresses carefully, plucking his cleanest shirt from his bags, and brushes his hair back with the carved comb Jaskier bought him many seasons ago. He meets his own eyes in the mirror and there's a glint in them that looks like hope. Swallowing back something that in a human might have been nerves, Geralt heads for the door.

The great hall looks much as it did the night before, tables filled with well dressed nobility and masked servants lining the walls. Jaskier stands among them again, but this time Geralt had steeled himself and avoids gazing at him. Unlike yesterday not all the servants wear masks, he notes; some white shirted staff have their faces visible, and they join the nobility in shooting occasional nervous glances at the witcher. Clearly Jaskier's influence only goes so far.

A man whose presence makes his medallion vibrate in the familiar way of mages gives him the most wary look, but he's seated the other side of the countess and there's no reason for him to speak to a mage, particularly not one in a minor court in a backwater town, so he blots out the sharp scent of his fear when it reaches him.

Once the plates are cleared, Geralt's belly pleasantly full of rich food and strong ale, the countess beckons to Jaskier, and he steps forward with three others flanking him. They all hold instruments, and all wear masks.

"Sing for us, songbird."

_Songbird_ had grated before, when she'd used it to command Jaskier to leave, but the pang of guilt - he'd never asked Jaskier to perform, not once in twenty years - makes him avert his eyes from the bard and his companions.

As Jaskier's voice fills the room, soaring to the rafters, Geralt allows his eyes to close, letting the familiar rich tone sink under his skin. It feels like home, like the first glimpse of Kaer Morhen in the distance as winter draws in.

As the song draws to a close he opens his eyes to watch Jaskier's face, or at least what he can see of it beneath the mask, blush pink lips wide over white teeth, pale clean-shaven skin. He knows how those lips feel against his, knows the heat of that clever tongue against his own, and the empty hole he'd ripped in his own chest on a mountaintop yawns deep and aching.

As applause rings out the countess leans over and whispers conspiratorially, "He's a pretty little thing, but I couldn't stand his chatter."

Geralt grunts noncommittally. Ten years ago - maybe even a year ago - he might have agreed with her, but he had been a different man then. A man who hadn't lost the chance, the _right_ , to ever listen to the bard's mindless chatter or his absent composing or his singing.

He suddenly wants nothing more than to leave this room, this whole damned castle where Jaskier's so obviously well kept and comfortable, but forces himself to stay in his seat. If this is punishment, he more than deserves it. He deserved it months ago, and just because the initial pain had faded doesn't mean the return of it is any less unpleasant.

He's so sunk in his own misery that he barely registers the rest of the music and Jaskier's eventual dismissal. It's with relief that he watches the countess and her equally beautiful sister retire and he can retreat to his own room.

After he's moped for a bit, optimistically calling it meditating, there's a knock at the door and he scrambles to his feet to open it.

There's a servant there, no mask shuttering his pale green eyes, and he _reeks_ of fear. "My lady suggested you might want company."

Geralt stares, heart pounding in his chest as Jaskier steps forward, head bowed.

He nods once, sharply, and gestures Jaskier inside.

His hands are gentle as he lifts the mask from Jaskier's face, placing the delicate thing on the dressing table. It's a relief to see the vulnerability of sharp cheekbones and expressive eyebrows, though he can't quite parse the look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing he says once the door shuts. Jaskier ignores his words, and then familiar clever hands are on his chest, pushing him back towards the bed, and he lets him steer them where he will.

The relief of it, that he's somehow been forgiven without so much as a word from his bard, is overwhelming, and the quick fingers fumbling at his breeches stoke the flames in his chest.

Jaskier goes to his knees, eyes bright and cheerful and oh so familiar.

"Jaskier," he murmurs, but he doesn't see heavy lids flutter in the way they usually do when he rumbles out the name, and instead the deep summer sky of his eyes remain fixed on the rapidly growing bulge in dark breeches, long fingers stroking reverentially over him.

"You shouldn't - shouldn't let me off this easy, I was _cruel_ -" but his words are scattering as a hand slips inside the breeches. He forces himself to focus, fight through the allure of lust, to cup a large hand around the bard's jaw, tilting his face up until his hands still and his gaze drifts upwards.

"Can I -" and it still hurts to ask, the neediness and pleading of it sitting unnatural despite their years together, but he does, he needs it, "Can I kiss you?"

The bard rises smoothly to his feet, curls his hands around Geralt's thick biceps, and brings their mouths together. It's tentative at first, as Geralt relearns the taste of him, but a questing tongue has Jaskier's lips parting beneath him. He tastes of bread, and wine, and a familiar siren sweetness that Geralt can't help but drink down. He'd almost lost hope of ever getting to taste this again, of ever getting to do any of this again, glide his hands over Jaskier's willing body, feel the silken strands of his hair - fuck, the _braids_ , he's going to pull those later when he gets the chance - ghost down to the lush curves of his arse and pull him close.

But though Jaskier kisses him back there's no hunger to it, none of the desperation that usually characterised their meetings after long partings, and the absence tugs at Geralt's heart.

The passion is gone. The deep glorious scent of lust that always rose around the bard when they kissed - gone.

Geralt gentles the kiss, until he can pull back without cruelty, and brushes a knuckle along Jaskier's cheek over the spray of freckles and a pale pink scar. His thoughts of pulling at the elegant braids fade into the disappointment that he can't tousle the dark hair as he'd done so many times in the past, can't feel the strands trail through his fingers one last time.

"I'm sorry, songbird. I've ruined everything, haven't I?" He can hear the ache in his voice, but it doesn't compare to the ache that's starting to settle in his chest.

Jaskier offers him a small smile, kiss swollen lips turning up just a little, and his knees bend as though he's about to sink to the floor again. It's tempting, gods it's tempting, but this isn't right. " _Don't_ , Jask. You don't want this. I can tell, you know I can." His voice is low and despairing. It feels like Jaskier's trying to prove himself, to stay quiet as he'd been asked to do so many times, to be nothing but a willing body, and that's not what Geralt wants, he doesn't want silence or empty submission when he's had twenty years of a rich and balanced love with this talented man.

But the bard's determined, hand slipping to the opening of Geralt's breeches again with single minded focus. Geralt's tempted, he _is_ , but every bit of his training and his many years with Jaskier at his side is screaming that something is very, very wrong.

He steps back, shoving a hand between them to grasp Jaskier's wrist, drawing it away with gentle firmness. When the other slides downward from his chest he lets out a half-hearted snarl and catches that too, wrapping his hand around both slim wrists at once and holding them steady, leaving his other hand free to cup Jaskier's head and draw him gently in against his shoulder. The bard sways forward, and Geralt buries his nose in the crook of his neck with a breath that catches in his throat.

He inhales deeply, letting Jaskier's summer meadow musk suffuse his lungs, the familiarity of it settling in his chest. He wants to rub his face against delicate skin, smear Jaskier's scent over himself until he can't tell where one of them ends and the other starts, but he's lost that right.

Jaskier doesn't move as Geralt scents his fill, standing calm and steady despite the hulking witcher pressing close to his throat and trapping his hands.

The same bitter note and pungent oil from the first night he arrived is a sharp counterpoint to the natural scent of him. It's not fear, or hate, instead something foreign, something unnatural sweated from his pores.

They stand there in silence, the only sound the thumping of Jaskier's human heart and their heavy breaths. That's just one more strangeness to all of this, that Jaskier isn't protesting or laughing or humming satisfied against him as he always did when Geralt indulged in this witcher peculiarity, and the trickle of suspicion crawling up his spine solidifies into something more certain.

When Geralt finally pulls back, Jaskier blinks at him.

"Stay there," he rumbles. Jaskier stands obediently, hands in front and wrists still pressed together where Geralt had held them, watching with mild curiosity.

He rifles through his saddlebag until he finds his smallest silver dagger, smaller than the one tucked in his boot. "Hold out your hand."

Left hand presented palm up with no hesitation, no scent of fear, though Jaskier's in a small room with a large witcher and a knife. He _should_ be scared, foolish man, if he'd had any sense at all, but then he never has when it comes to witchers.

Moving slowly, Geralt takes the offered hand, curling his own underneath it. Dark blue watches him closely as he presses the flat of the blade to the base of Jaskier's thumb. No flinch, no hiss, no bubbling of skin.

"Hmm."

Tucking the dagger away he curls a hand under Jaskier's chin, holding him still as he looks into familiar blue eyes. "Jaskier. What's going on?"

He's met with a guileless smile and his heart sinks. "Jaskier."

Nothing.

And then it occurs to him, under the scent of something that he's now convinced is some potion. The countess' words, her commands. " _Songbird_. Talk."

"What would you like me to say?" And it's not accusing or bitter, it's just curious, waiting for instruction. Jaskier's head tilts a little to one side.

That his nickname, his stupid sappy pet name, is being used for some awful control over the bard - it makes him feel sick, sends a rush of adrenaline through him like the first gulp of Thunderbolt.

At least he hadn't succumbed to Jaskier's clever hands, taken from him when he's not truly there, not able to give consent in any way that matters, but the temptation had been there and he'd been so close to giving in. How had he not realised something was wrong sooner?

He slumps on the bed, head in his hands, as Jaskier watches him for instruction.

His damn hands are still where Geralt left them.

Eight months of absence after he'd flung cruel words in the face of his lover, and now he's got a chance to redeem himself he can hardly think.

He marshals his thoughts. First things first, the countess. Then her mage. Then Jaskier, for as long as the bard will have him.

Geralt rises from the bed and indulges himself with a last touch, both hands cupping Jaskier's face, sweeping calloused thumbs over his cheekbones before he leans forward and places a delicate kiss on the calm, unfurrowed brow. When this is over, his apologies for the mountain might be rejected, and he might never get this chance again.

He buckles on his armour efficiently, movements tense and furious and precise. Jaskier might have helped him, once upon a time, but he doesn't ask, and this passive version of Jaskier doesn't offer.

Steel and silver swords strapped to his back he looks at his bard, memorising the open relaxed boyishness of his face, the sharp jaw and warm eyes.

"Stay here."

Jaskier doesn't move, and as Geralt reaches the door he turns back for one final, heartfelt command.

"Know that I love you. Always."

He shuts the door behind him with a dreadful finality. He can only hope Jaskier will still be there when he gets back, and of his own free will.

A servant, masked and unfearing, provides him with directions to the countess' rooms.

The guards outside slump at his quick Axii command to sleep, probably overpowered for his needs but he's _angry_ , and the door flies open when he kicks at it.

The countess is abed, entwined with the mage, but before either of them can react he throws Aard at them and they fly apart, hitting the wall within a split second of each other, the sheets a cloak in their wake that settles around them.

He throws a second Aard at the mage, driving him back hard enough that the man groans and clutches at the floor on all fours, but then Geralt only has eyes for the countess.

" _Slaves_ ," he roars, and the fury is delicious, and their fear sweeter still.

The mage protests but it's mumbled to the floor as he sways, and the countess draws herself up from the ground. "It's not slavery if they have no wish to leave," she says acidically. "I should never have sent him to you, you're being foolish."

"You can't just take away their _minds_ and then say it's a choice freely made!"

Kalina pulls the sheets around herself and raises her chin, still noble and beautiful despite her rats nest hair and nakedness. "He made his choice when he touched my sister and begged me not to cut off his finger."

"You took his _voice_."

She looks unimpressed. "I let him sing, but otherwise he was fucking annoying."

Geralt has his hand wrapped around her throat before he realises he's even moved. Her eyes bulge and she chokes against his palm. The mage stirs as though to do something, and Geralt kicks him away without loosening an inch, and then snarls at him. "Mage. Talk."

"He was supposed to do as he was told, they all were. Like she said, they made their choice!"

"Slavery or torture, that's no choice at all." He tightens his grip. "What did you do to Jaskier?"

He doesn't get an answer, and scowls down, but - "To _Songbird_. What did you do to him? He doesn't obey everything."

The mage is wide eyed and fearful, nothing like Yennefer or her ilk. No attempt to defy a furious witcher or even defend himself. "He only needs to be addressed directly to speak, or sing, otherwise he'll just do as he's told without it. I - I put an extra layer in for speech, he kept breaking through the spell."

Of course he fucking did.

"DId anyone - touch him. While he was here. Did you send him to anyone's room?"

The countess is wheezing now, nails scrabbling at his hands, but she shakes her head desperately. "Yours - only yours! He was only a bard!"

One last squeeze and Geralt lets her drop. The mage shuffles over to her, looking for solace or perhaps to comfort her, but she shoves him away with weak arms.

He looks up at Geralt. "It'll wear off. A few weeks, a month, then he'll be fine."

"Can you remove it faster?"

"I... maybe?" The mage lifts his hands from the floor, and the steel sword is at his throat in an instant. He whimpers and cringes back.

Geralt growls out between gritted teeth, "Try anything, and I'll take your head." He has half a mind to do it anyway.

"I swear, witcher, you'll regret this," the countess hisses at him, though she's still on the ground and her voice is rough, and then turns on the mage. "And you! Betraying me!"

They both ignore her.

"Lift the spell now, and I won't kill you where you lie."

The mage nods, and despite the howling of his mistress lifts his hands and says a string of words. There's a pulse of magic, scented like the oils that had seemingly drenched the great hall, not a display of wealth at all but instead badly disguised magic from a weak mage with perhaps only the one talent. He lists over afterwards, panting and grey, shaking his head. "I've done what I can, but it may still take time."

"You _fucker_!" She screams and slaps at the mage and he squirms away.

"Your father may have stuck me with you but I'm done. I'm _done_ , you hear?" At the tip of a sword, he seems to have finally grown a spine, but the witcher can't find it in him to offer even a modicum of respect.

Geralt sheaths his sword and leaves them to their lovers' tiff. He has more important things to do.

On the way back to his room he yanks the xenovox from his pocket and snarls into it as he trots through the halls. "There's a bitch here with a mage here who needs your attention."

Yenner's voice comes back sharp. "I don't just come running when you call me, witcher. There's war brewing, I'm _busy_."

He bites back a vicious response; Yennefer isn't his enemy here, for all that this mage is one of her people. "Mind control. At least a dozen, probably more. They had _Jaskier_."

There's an empty silence. "I'll come. Aretuza will deal with them. Is Jaskier..."

"I have him." Not _he's well_ , or _he'll be ok_. Just _I have him_. Whatever else happens, Geralt has him.

"Look after him. And make sure you fucking apologise."

He grunts, and tucks the device away.

When he reaches his room there's no heartbeat behind the door and a sour bite of fear in the air, but he opens the door anyway, hands steady, just to confirm the emptiness beyond.

His bags are where he left them, his comb still on the dresser. Jaskier's scent permeates the room, but the man is gone.

"Fuck."

He spins away in a flurry of silver-white hair, pelts down the hallway in pursuit of his bard.

The trail leads him outside, but the wind outside is strong and the scent is spread wide. "Jaskier!"

The castle grounds don't answer him, and he growls his fury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details of mildly dubious consent: Jaskier is under the influence of an obedience spell when he tries to touch Geralt, but Geralt stops before anything happens outside of a bit of groping. There's also some kissing while Jaskier is under the influence of the spell and unable to give consent.


	3. Chapter 3

With the moon waxed down to a thin crescent and the grounds more shadow than silver he thinks briefly about running to grab his potions bag and throw back Cat, but witcher sight will be enough when he's tracking prey he knows so well.

From the castle gates he lopes easily around in a wide loop, head high as he scents the air and eyes casting the ground. There's traces of meadow and musk, but he can't pin down a clear direction.

The sight of the stables makes him squint, too bright against the rest of the night, and the smell of hay and horsehair catches in his nose. There's no sound from the building, no clatter of doors or tack to indicate an escape. He turns away, frustrated, but then - Jaskier's clever. Foolish but clever. He'll have known he was in Geralt's rooms, he knows witcher senses.

Freshly hopeful Geralt heads back towards the stable, slipping from shadow to shadow. If the bard is there, who knows what state he's in after the enchantment, better to take him by surprise.

He eases through an open doorway, focused for any hint of movement in the torchlight, but all he can see is Roach, ears pricking as she spots him.

Beneath the sounds of rats and horses shuffling in the straw, he can hear something else, quick breaths muffled under a hand. He listens harder; slow horse heartbeats, and the quick thud-thud of a single, scared human.

"Jaskier," he sighs out.

There's no movement, but the heartbeat kicks up another notch.

Geralt hangs his head in faint despair, but moves forward with careful, measured steps. He reaches Roach's stall; she lifts her head over the half door to snuffle at his hand and he gives her a quick rub.

Casually, though his own heart is fluttering more than it should, he leans over the door, resting leather-wrapped forearms on the solid wood. "Hello, bardling."

Pressed against a corner of the stall, back to the door so he's only visible once someone looks into the stall itself, is a sad little ball of white silk and dark hair. Jaskier's knees are drawn up to his chest, and his hand drops away from his mouth once he realises it's futile.

His head thumps back against the wood, and resigned blue eyes roll over to meet witcher gold. "Geralt."

The misery in that single word makes Geralt want to throw open the door - or just vault the damn thing - and gather Jaskier into his arms.

"How much do you remember?"

Jaskier shakes his head, looking a little lost. "Last thing I remember I was in the dungeon getting seven bells kicked out of me, and then a weaselly mage turned up with the countess - have you met her, by the way? She could give Yennefer a run for her money with the whole beautiful intimidating bitch thing - then things get a bit fuzzy, and then I woke up in your room." And ran like there were hounds on his heels, Geralt mentally adds, his heart aching. Gods, the mess he's made of it all.

He hates to bring this up already, but he has to know. "How long do you think it's been since the dragon hunt?"

Jaskier flinches, and his voice wavers when he responds. "Six months?" The thick scent of misery drifts between them, and it has to be the memory of the damned mountain.

"Eight." Two months, then, lost to a cage.

The bard huffs out a breath. "Could've been worse." Tears suddenly spring to life in his eyes and he turns away, but Geralt can taste the salt in the air and hear the catch in his breath.

"Jaskier... Can I come in?"

He gets the tiniest nod, barely discernible beneath heaving shoulders.

Geralt unbolts the door, nudging Roach gently aside as she noses at him, and goes to his knees in the straw at Jaskier's side, pulling the man close as he sobs.

It can't be comfortable pressed against so much sharp-studded armour, but Jaskier doesn't seem to mind, just holding Geralt's arms tighter around him as he takes deep shuddering breaths.

The bard's scent is more than just fear and relief, there's aching misery there, and Geralt knows this isn't just about escaping a countess and her pet mage.

He presses kisses against braided hair, trying to murmur things that might help, knowing it's the low burr of his chest that will soothe Jaskier more than any words he can fumble together. He's no bard.

When the sobs have faded and Jaskier lies limp in his arms, Geralt presses a kiss to his forehead but Jaskier squirms away out of his grasp until he's sat back in the straw, head low, gently batting away Roach with a murmur when she snuffles at his hair.

Fuck. One of the missing memories is his apology, when the bard had mindlessly tried... when he'd... when Geralt had almost made _yet another_ mistake. It's probably a good thing; it'd been a bit of a shit apology even by Geralt's own standards.

He waits until bloodshot eyes glance up at him, heavy and miserable, and pins them with his own gaze. "What I said on the mountain was cruel. And untrue. I should never have said it, and I have regretted it every single day since." His voice is gravel, and Jaskier's eyes are wide. "I'm sorry, Jaskier. I don't expect forgiveness. But if we could be - _friends_. Again. I would be thankful."

Friends. Not lovers. He's lost the right to even ask for that, though the taste of him when they'd kissed before has only driven home how much he misses that. But he loves this man, so much it seems impossible, and he'll take whatever scraps the bard is willing to give him.

Jaskier looks at him steadily. His face is blotchy and tear streaked and his mouth is downturned and despondent, but his chin juts out stubbornly as though he's determined not to let it all get the better of him again. "You chose Yennefer, then."

What? They'd both slept around occasionally, it wasn't in either of them to be monogamous particularly when they spent months apart, but - "What?"

"Just _friends_." It's sharp and bitter. "She wants you all to herself."

Still on his knees Geralt shuffles closer, but a furious glare stops him dead. He spreads his arms, helpless. "What I have with her, it's nothing like what I have - what I _had_ with you. If I could take back everything I said, take _you_ back, I would. If you'd have me."

Jaskier's eyes flood again, and Geralt can't help but panic a little, but then his lap is heavy once again with a trembling bard straddling his wide thighs.

"I'm sorry," Jaskier whispers against his neck. "I've been so miserable without you."

Geralt sighs. "I'm sorry, songbird."

There's a flinch from the man in his arms, and Geralt pets his hair reassuringly, feeling the knots of the braids under his fingertips. "Oh - oh I don't like that. Don't call me that. Sorry, I don't know why-"

Fuck. "The countess called you that. When she was giving you orders."

"Oh. Um, orders?" Jaskier swallows. "That doesn't sound... fun."

"Yennefer's dealing with her, and the mage," Geralt says darkly. "They had you perform, nothing more." And if the memory of the name is in there, perhaps the rest will come back too.

"Good. Yes, ok, good." Jaskier leans back, and he's still red and tearful but there's a stubborn light in his eyes. "I'd like to leave now, if we can."

Geralt hums out his agreement, but holds him tight just a little longer before easing away.

Jaskier rubs a sleeve over his eyes and brushes the straw from his breeches, then seems to notice his plain clothes. "I definitely didn't choose this outfit. Don't suppose you've seen my clothes anywhere? Gods, or my _lute_?"

"We'll get them."

Jaskier grabs a double handful of water from a clean-ish trough as they pass, throwing it over his face and scrubbing away the salt stains before lifting the base of his chemise to dry off. Geralt swallows hard at the sight of pale skin and the line of dark hair, and looks away.

When he looks back Jaskier gives him a cheeky smile, though it wobbles a little. "Letching already?"

He grunts, but lets the corner of his mouth lift, and Jaskier's face brightens at the sight of it.

Inside the castle there's panic-sweat hanging in the air, and Geralt growls, "Stay behind me," as he draws his sword.

"Yep, definitely, yes, I'll do that." He can hear the nerves in Jaskier's voice too, but he falls into line.

They walk through the halls carefully. Geralt can hear shouting in the distance. A door slams, and they turn a corner to see three people in plain white shirts - one clutching a fiddle and bow at though his life depends on it - creeping towards them. At the sight of Geralt in full armour they flinch back as one, and he holds his hands up. Unfortunately one still grips his sword, so it doesn't particularly help the situation. "I'm not here for you."

Jaskier peers from behind him, and a smile tugs briefly at his cheeks. "I know you," he says carefully.

The woman nods just as cautiously, eyes flickering between him and Geralt. "And I you, though I don't know how. I don't know how we got here, or where we are."

"Lady's Kalina castle. There was a spell - Geralt broke it and we're all free, but you should run before she summons her guard."

Her eyes look to Geralt, and the pungent scent of her fear fades a little. "Thank you, witcher."

He grunts. They've already been stood here too long.

"I'm Jaskier; if you ever need me send word to Oxenfurt, I'll do what I can to help." Something warm purrs in Geralt's chest. His silly, wonderful bard, trying to help anyone in danger even when he's terrified himself. Braver than he ever gives himself credit for.

She shakes her head. "We'll be fine." She grabs the hand of the man holding the fiddle, and smiles. "Farewell, Jaskier."

He dips his head a little, and the group hurry past them and away.

Jaskier speaks thoughtfully as they move down the corridor. "I think she did my braids. And... helped treat me a couple of times."

"Treat...?" He remembers the countess' words about Jaskier begging her not to take a finger. He's not taken full stock of his bard, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to strip him naked and check every inch of him for damage.

"Just a few bruises." It's a lie, from his heart rate, and after a second Jaskier adds, "Fossard - captain of the guard - he's a bit of a prick. Didn't like me backchatting, when the spell didn't stick. He, uh. Likes mind games." There's an unhappy flush on his cheeks. "Crawling." He cuts himself off and looks determinedly away.

Geralt grunts, and lets him keep his peace, though he'll have questions later. At least he seems to be getting some of his memory back, even if those memories don't seem pleasant.

They don't come across anyone else on their way to the servants' quarters, though there are heartbeats behind closed doors that suggest most people are still peacefully at rest. Hopefully only those freed by the spell walk the halls.

Jaskier turns them once or twice before Geralt has a chance to follow the scent trail laid down, though he doesn't seem to be doing it consciously, and before long they're in a corridor with bolts on the outside of the doors, though they hang open and clearly someone's already been here and released the bewitched staff.

Jaskier's room is near the end, and much to his relief contains his lute, which he runs his fingers over with feverish intensity, checking for the slightest damage as Geralt prowls around the room.

There's a locked chest that smells of the bard, and Geralt wraps his large hand around the lock and simply yanks it off with a splintering of wood, tossing it aside. Jaskier sets on the contents in glee, scooping up doublets and spare lute strings and a bag that clinks as much as Geralt's potion bag might if he were a disorganised, chaotic mess - his facial creams and lute oil and scented body oils and who knows what else - shoving them all into his knapsack. "Ready," he says breathlessly, lute and pack thrown over his shoulder.

They fetch Geralt's bags too, and when Jaskier spots the intricate mask discarded on the dresser he runs a finger along the edge of it then shudders, pushing it away with a distasteful twist to his mouth.

The stone seems to echo louder under their feet now they're close to freedom, and they're nearing the exit when a clatter of boots announces a half dozen guards led by a thick shouldered man with an ugly scowl.

Jaskier's fear scent ratchets up, bitter in the back of Geralt's nose, and he urges the bard back behind him.

"That's Fossard," Jaskier whispers, and his voice is tight.

" _Move_ ," Geralt snarls at the men between them and the main doors. Though a couple of the guards shift nervously, they don't get out of the way, and Fossard hefts his sword like a man who knows it well.

The captain's gaze flicks to Jaskier, cowering behind Geralt's bulk. "Get over here," he orders.

"Fuck you," Jaskier snaps out, his voice tight with fear and anger. "You were going to mangle my face, you brutish, bootlicking shitstain."

"I still might," the man bites back, and Geralt growls deep in his chest. Fossard's expression twists. "He might have got rid of some of that spell but I know you needed more to keep your fucking mouth shut. Songbird, come _here_."

There's a brush at Geralt's arm and to his disbelief Jaskier strides forward towards the guards, face blank and empty.

Fucking mage. Can't even undo his own fucking curse properly, he hopes Yennefer _eviscerates_ him.

Geralt drops his gear and snatches Jaskier back, wide hand rough enough to bruise on the bard's forearm, and sends him further down the corridor with a shove before lunging into the fray, sword raised.

The captain avoids being the first casualty, sidestepping the initial swipe with a great leap that has him off balance, but another man takes the blade through his neck, choking and dying on his own blood.

He doesn't expect the curse to be so persistent, and when Jaskier drifts past him again he's too swamped by the unexpectedly coordinated attacks to reach out and stop him.

He doesn't want to kill the men, not when _Butcher_ still rings in his ears every time he swings at a human, but when he hears above the clash of steel, "Kneel, songbird," he flings Aard down the corridor hard enough to shove all four men back. One doesn't get up, and another takes the chance to flee. Two left, plus Fossard, but when he turns to Jaskier it doesn't matter how many men remain.

Jaskier's on his knees, head drawn back by a hand twisted in his hair and a wicked looking knife pressed to the long column of his throat.

"Sorry, Geralt, I couldn't..." The bard blinks helplessly at him and drifts into silence.

His hand twitches spasmodically where it's curled up to his chest, curling up into a fist, but then there's a single finger raised. Geralt watches out of the corner of his eye, gaze fixed on Fossard's chest as he watches for any hint of movement that might indicate immediate danger.

Two fingers, as Fossard spits threats and curses.

He shifts his feet.

Three, and then as Jaskier twists and wordlessly yells Geralt throws himself forward, every muscle and sinew in his body straining towards a single common goal.

Fossard's neck snaps crisply under his hands.

He flings the body aside to reach for Jaskier, who's sprawled on the floor with his lute and bag twisted awkwardly around him, but when his hands make contact with the white shirt the bard flinches away, looking up and then flopping back down with an expression of relief.

"Fuck," Jaskier says eloquently to the stone floor, and Geralt grunts his agreement.

Hands gentle, now he knows his bard is alive, he turns Jaskier onto his back, mindful of the lute. One finger under his chin lifts his head back to inspect the thin slice that marrs his throat. "It's fine, barely a scratch."

Geralt hums, but lets him go.

The last of the guards are gone, their comrades littering the floor, and they don't meet any more resistance as they head towards the stables, the rest of the household sleeping peacefully in the early morning. There's the scent of lilac on the brisk night air, so perhaps Yennefer is already there and seeking vengeance.

Trotting obediently behind Geralt in the dark, Jaskier doesn't say a word. He takes the pack from Geralt's shoulder when they reach the stables, staying out of the way as he tacks up Roach, who objects to the disturbance of her sleep with little bites at the witcher's shoulder and hip until he snarls at her and she snatches her head away as though smacked.

Jaskier flinches at the snarl, a little twitch that makes Geralt pause and grit his teeth before holding out a beckoning hand. "Pack."

The bard hands over the saddlebags with no complaint, and Geralt lashes them to the saddle. He flicks the reins over Roach's head to lead her out of the stall, though she still flicks her heels and jitters sideways as a protest against leaving the warmth and the hay, and the three of them head outside into the night.

It's the work of a moment to mount, settling easily into Roach's saddle without a creak of tack or clink of metal, and he stares down at Jaskier where the glow of the stables casts his face into shadow. Witcher sight can make out the expression, but exactly what it means Geralt can't quite decide.

When he gives Roach a nudge to move off, there's a brief pause before Jaskier follows him, traipsing down the path towards the town. There's no sign of sunrise over the horizon, no lightening of black velvet skies, but the road is clear and flat under Roach's hooves.

*-*-*-*-*

The adrenaline of waking, disoriented, in an unfamiliar room filled with Geralt's belongings and nothing of his own, then the terror of being in a fight and his body betraying him to walk straight into danger - admittedly something he's done more than once before, but at least usually he's in his right mind when he does it - has finally started to wear off, and the shivers from the chill night wind are starting to chase over his skin.

Jaskier still has his pack over his shoulder, but he doesn't want to ask Geralt to stop so he can sling on a jacket, or even better change his clothes completely in an attempt to get rid of whatever oils they'd painted on his skin. He doesn't know what it is, bitter and unpleasant, but it's quite frankly an awful choice and doesn't complement his natural scent at all. He needs a bath, and a decent glass of wine, and a good night's sleep. Maybe several good nights, preferably on a feather bed.

It would be easy to ask Geralt to stop; he'd probably oblige, pull Roach to a halt and wait the few seconds it would take for him to fumble on a doublet and stop the biting cold, but something in him rebels at showing any hint of weakness, any hint that he isn't capable. Any suggestion that he might be a nuisance, a shoddy travelling companion, a _shit shoveller_. Stupid, when Geralt's already saved his life today and apparently his mind too, but the voice in his head that sounds like a choral line of his parents and his writing tutor and Geralt himself is insistent that he has to try, has to do his level best when he's got this last tiny chance to not be a fucking disaster of a human being. Geralt's voice fills in the baritone of the harmony beautifully.

He bites back a chatter of teeth, gritting them instead and steeling his shoulders, and it's a relief when the glow of torchlight in the distance resolves into the town. It looks different to when he last walked through the gates on an irritatingly sunny day, but he recognises the inn. He'd been delighted to spot it after days walking from the last decent sized town without a drop of ale, and he's even more grateful to see it now.

"This has all been more exciting than drowning my sorrows," he says, eyes fixed on the inn, "But I rather think I might give the drinking thing another go."

"Midnight's long passed." Of course Geralt knows exactly what time it is, though the stars are hidden by clouds and the bells are silenced for the night.

"Then they'll give me a room, and I'll start drinking in the morning."

From atop of Roach, Geralt gives him a slightly bewildered look, and Jaskier sighs. Keeping his voice low in the quiet street, he stops and waits with his hands on his hips for the witcher to turn the horse around in a quarter circle. "Look, I know you apologised, and that was lovely and actually very unexpected, but I can't remember the last two months and I was pretty fucking miserable before that. I can't just forget everything. Well, I suppose I can, that's what just happened, but I can't forget the stuff I already remember."

The bewildered expression deepens, and Jaskier scowls. He'd had something better thought out, he's sure, but that had been before he'd been thrown off his stride by being kidnapped for two whole months and being magicked to apparently obey the word of a guy who'd held a knife to his throat _twice_.

"Jaskier..." Geralt's growl is even lower than usual, golden eyes glittering in the faint light thrown by the few torches that still hold a flame.

"No, Geralt. I need a bath and a drink and probably another few drinks after that, because I can feel things nagging at the back of my head that I'm pretty sure are from the last two months and I'm not entirely sure I want to look at them too closely."

Geralt drops down off Roach's back, smooth as silk, and Jaskier takes a step back. He might have had an apology, and it's certainly been a long twenty years since that extremely memorable blow to the gut, but there's no reason to try his luck.

But instead of a blow, Geralt simply holds out a hand. Tentatively, Jaskier lifts his own, and Geralt moves smoothly forward to grasp his forearm.

Jaskier's fingers fold around the rough leather of the long gloves, an almost open handed grip where Geralt's muscles swell beneath it. A grip of brethren, brothers in arms. Equals. He has to gulp back tears, hot in the back of his throat. It feels as final as anything they'd shared on a mountain top.

They stand in repose, silent in the street. Geralt's eyes search his, a steady examination, and eventually the witcher lets go with a sigh, looking back at Roach. "I should never have tried to cage a songbird."

His heart lurches. "It was never a cage, not with you."

"Clip your wings, then."

Jaskier smiles bitterly. "Seems like that's all anyone wants to do."

Geralt seems lost for words, and turns away to reach for the reins.

"Goodbye, Geralt."

He gets a grunt in response, and it's the ridiculousness of that - after everything - that finally brings the tears to his eyes.

He manages to mostly keep it together until the innkeep, bleary eyed from sleep but more than willing to take his coin for half a night's stay and a hastily pulled pint of ale, shows him to his room. He eases the door shut, mindful of other inhabitants, and collapses on the bed, tears spilling in a scalding flood.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the smutty one.

Jaskier wakes, face stiff with salt, and creaks to his feet. In the dull mirror he can see the red rimming his eyes, and scoffs a little at himself. A splash of water brightens the skin, and a second handful goes to his neck to wash away the brown stain of dried blood, though he's careful to avoid pulling away the scab. When the discoloured water drips down over his collarbone he's abruptly aware that he's still in the elegant silk chemise, the uniform of his imprisonment, and he rips it off with trembling hands, shoving it into the hearth where embers still smoulder. It doesn't catch instantly, but he prods it with the poker until the flame takes.

He crouches there, half-naked and wild eyed as a feral child as the flames eat away at the white silk, ignoring the burnt hair smell it sends into the room.

When he heads downstairs, washed and dressed, the innkeep who had warned him away from the countess' sister and failed to recognise him in the middle of the night stares at him with his mouth half agape.

He eats breakfast on the coin he earned here two months ago. It tastes less of ash than the last time he ate in the tavern, now he's had an apology and something of a resolution.

After barely sleeping for the meagre hours he lay abed he's barely conscious, and he leans heavily on his hand to watch the town waking through the window.

Six months - alright, eight, and perhaps it will feel like eight once the memories slowly coming back to him coalesce - of moping. Surely that's enough. It's nowhere near enough to get over a relationship that's taken the best years of his life, but perhaps it's enough for him to finally start moving on.

He finishes the bread with fresh determination, but as he shoves the plate away the tavern door swings open and a familiar face ducks inside.

Geralt stomps through the room, and the innkeep doesn't protest any more than he'd protested Jaskier's kidnapping. Jaskier scowls at the table, and busies his hands with sweeping up the crumbs he's spilled across the rough wooden surface. He's said all that needs saying, they've had their big goodbye, now if the witcher could just _fuck off_ and let him start recovering in peace, that would be great.

A small glass bottle, neatly stoppered and labelled in neat handwriting that certainly doesn't belong to the witcher, is set down in front of him, carefully away from the pile of crumbs.

"I bought this. For you."

Jaskier looks up at Geralt, who looks away, arms folded over his massive chest. On another man - on a human - Jaskier could swear it was embarrassment.

"It's too early for shopping," Jaskier says inanely.

"Bought it before."

"Oh." He swallows, reaches out for the bottle. Uncorks it and lifts it to his nose, flicking his eyes to Geralt to check this is the right thing to do, that it's not some witcher potion. "Oh!" He can't help the smile that lifts his cheeks at the scent of delicate wildflowers and verbena and rich sandalwood.

Geralt's voice fills the silence between them. "The spell reeked. You had one like this once, a long time ago. I - liked it."

"When you visited me in Oxenfurt the first time." Geralt had held him tight and pressed his nose close, deep scenting breaths at the curve of his neck, when they'd met after a long winter. He'd had the very last dregs of the bottle on his skin.

He gets a pleased hum, for remembering, and Geralt finally meets his eyes.

"Travel with me again, songbird." They both flinch at that, and Geralt shakes his head and tries again. "My little lark. I miss you."

_I miss you too. So much._

Jaskier takes another deep breath of the rich oil, and puts the stopper back in, putting the bottle firmly back on the table.

His hair hangs over his face, the lengths that had been braided curling softly around him in a halo, as he twists his hands together and considers the offer. He's hurting. He'll probably be hurting for a long time. And yet - and _yet_.

"Alright."

There's a quick intake of breath from the man looming over him. "As friends?" It's tentative, and that's not something he's ever heard from Geralt, not in twenty years.

"As more, if you still want me."

*-*-*-*-*

They leave the town with sunrise still spilling across the fields, rich and golden. Jaskier carries his lute, and smells of wildflowers and the new oil and love.

Geralt smells a little of horse, and leather, and destiny. No onion, this time. If Jaskier had witcher senses, he'd pick up the scent of love, too; instead, the only confirmation he has is the soft smile Geralt gives him as they walk together.

They travel longer than they usually would, particularly given they're so tired - Jaskier barely slept a wink, and if Geralt even went to bed it certainly wasn't at the same inn as him - but they need to get well clear of the town before news of their involvement in Lady Kalina's fate spreads too far.

Jaskier's swaying on his feet as Geralt guides Roach off the road in the dusk, taking them through the trees to a clearing. The bard's been quiet all day, occasionally imitating Geralt with low hums as one or another memory surfaces. Nothing truly awful, thank the gods, but he's irritated at the number of times he was snapped at to do this or that, and at the beating he'd got when it seemed the spell wasn't taking well to his talking - even the memory of that was unpleasant, and he's glad he's no longer carrying the bruises.

He flops facedown on the bedroll, barely conscious of Geralt's weight settling down beside him and an arm being slung over his waist, but he manages to stir himself enough to roll over, pressing their bodies together.

With his back to the fire all he can see of Geralt is the gleam of his eyes and the outline of his hair as it catches the light. A hand cups his cheek and draws him close, tentative and painfully gentle, and he kisses back just as carefully.

Hands coax down firm bodies and soon enough wind into breeches, familiar with the fastenings after so many years.

It doesn't take much for them both to be panting silently into the night air. Jaskier curls round until his head rests on Geralt's shoulder, taking deep shuddering breaths as the witcher's large hand strokes his cock, twisting just how he likes it, light and slow, teasing where sensitivity makes him shiver. In return, he trails smooth calloused fingertips delicately up and down Geralt's length, until a low growl makes him laugh and wrap his whole hand around him.

Jaskier comes first with a muted groan, and there's a moment of stillness before he redoubles his efforts, until Geralt grits his teeth and bucks hot and wet into his hand.

They lie in silence, Jaskier not lifting his head from where it's buried in a strong shoulder, and then he whispers, "I remember you stopped me, before."

"It wasn't you."

"You could have, though."

There's a stillness in Geralt's body at that. "No," he says simply.

"Twenty years, it would have been ok, I'd have understood-"

"It wasn't _you_."

And there's a note of anger in that growl, and something in Jaskier is relieved to hear it. He hums, and presses a kiss to the sharp jaw where a muscle twitches with tension. Geralt turns towards him and captures his lips with savage gentleness, and Jaskier softens against him.

He falls asleep draped over his witcher, lips numb with kisses.

When he wakes, it's to birdsong and the sound of Geralt breaking camp. It's a familiar rhythm, and yet eight months ago he'd thought he'd heard it for the very last time.

There's a little extra spring in his step as he moves around the witcher in a routine that was set in their first season of travel and hasn't changed much since. After a little while, he notices that he's whistling, and it's a shock to realise that it's the first time in quite a while that he's played something cheerful for anything other than coin.

He's nudging at the low embers of the campfire, making sure there's nothing left to spark at the forest, when Geralt's voice rumbles across the clearing.

"Come on songbird, time to go."

Before he realises quite what's happening he's on his feet and standing by Roach's side, and Geralt is looking at him with horror in his golden eyes.

Jaskier swallows hard, and steps slowly away from the horse. "Spell's not totally gone then."

Geralt grunts, and horror fades to guilt and then into something else that Jaskier can't place because that proud head is turned away, refusing to make eye contact. He hears a rumble of "Sorry," and it's ridiculous that that's the third? time he's heard that in the last day.

"Just - be careful, alright? No more nicknames. And _please_ never goes amiss, though I know that one's a foreign concept to you."

His attempt at humour falls flat. He gets another hum, and that's the last thing he hears from the witcher for hours.

*-*-*-*-*

Now his hair's loose, not bound back by braids, the wind keeps whipping it into his eyes as they trudge down the path. He makes a noise of frustration as it sticks to his lip _again_ and then almost bumps into Roach where Geralt's pulled her to a halt.

"Come here," Geralt orders, then catches himself and scowls as Jaskier approaches.

"My own free will, that one," Jaskier reassures him. "I'm just hoping you've got something decent for lunch. Been a while since I looked in your saddlebags, there better not be anything from the mountain still in there." As if Geralt would let food rot in his bags, and not scour them at the slightest scent of decay. He doesn't mind eating slightly iffy food, but he won't let the smell hang around, and he certainly wouldn't feed Jaskier anything that might make him ill.

Normally they'd eat while walking, Jaskier chatting between bites, but for once Geralt slides off Roach's back and nods towards a tumbled heap of rocks that will serve them well as a resting place. Jaskier settles, a little confused, and frowns even more when Geralt drops bread and cheese in his lap and takes a seat behind him, legs braced around the bard's thighs.

"This is very lovely, but just a _bit_ odd - are you alright, Geralt?"

He gets a hum in response, and then there are fingers in his hair, thick and strong and gentle, sweeping the long strands back from his face, tucking them behind his ears and lifting them out of his collar. It's _heavenly_ , and he can feel shivers chasing down his spine.

After a while Geralt's fingers are swapped for a comb, and though he protests the change it's almost as nice to feel that on his scalp too. Then there's a more purposeful movement, and then a delicious tugging that makes him want to groan. He suppresses it, but only just, and he feels more than hears Geralt's huff of laughter behind him.

There's a low burning in his gut as the tugging resolves into something more regular, a left right left pattern that tells him what's going on.

The great White Wolf of Rivia is _braiding_ his _hair_.

He keeps forgetting to eat, eyes drifting shut with the bliss of Geralt's hands, but when the warmth of Geralt's legs leaves his sides he shakes himself awake. Geralt snorts out a laugh at his dazed expression.

Jaskier licks his fingers clean before lifting a hand to his head. There's a single braid this time, nothing near as fancy as he'd had before when the other musician had done it but the shoulder length hair sits neat and tidy and out of his eyes. And at the end, a leather tie, one of Geralt's spares.

Geralt looks slightly smug as Jaskier runs a hand down the pattern. "Didn't know you could braid," Jaskier says.

Geralt shrugs, and that's the end of it. Or, it would be, except that when Geralt's back on Roach and they're ready to move off, the witcher reaches a hand around the back of Jaskier's head, wrapping strong fingers around the braid, and with his eyes fixed on Jaskier pulls at it slow and steady and just hard enough to tilt Jaskier's head back a little until he's staring up at the witcher.

He can feel his breath coming hard, the sting of Geralt's tight grasp sending lighting shooting from his head straight to his groin.

Golden eyes search his face for a moment, testing the strength of their newly reforged bond, seeing how hard he can push, and then Geralt leans forward. Jaskier tries to move towards him but the hand on his braid is inexorable and he finds himself stuck, helpless, as Geralt's lips meet his in the most gentle kiss he might ever have received, barely a touch beneath the soft breath drifting between them.

Jaskier groans at the feel of it, at the burn of the hand twisted in his hair and the soft warmth of Geralt's lips, always smoother than he remembers.

It's a strain, to stay with his neck taut and his body slightly bowed and his hair gripped hard, but he doesn't complain, doesn't _want_ to complain, holds himself where he's been placed, and the longer Geralt's lips are feathersoft against his the more he wants to surge forward and _take_.

Eventually, long after Jaskier's cock has grown half hard in his breeches, Geralt moves that tiny distance closer until their lips can press together fully - but it's sharp teeth that meet Jaskier's urgency, biting at his lip where before had just been warmth and a delicate touch.

He stutters out a gasp, eyes opening wide, and Geralt lets go of his hair, letting his body unbend.

The witcher looks smug, and all Jaskier can do is blink stupidly at him as he nudges Roach into a slow walk.

"You braided my hair just so you could _pull_ it? And there I was, thinking you were being _kind_ , and _generous_ , and instead you were just using me for your own perverted ends!"

Geralt doesn't bother turning around. "I didn't hear you complaining."

Jaskier subsides. His cock takes rather longer to get the message.

*-*-*-*-*

Another few hour's hard walk - Geralt even lets Jaskier take a turn on Roach - and they make it to the next town on the road, larger than the one they left and with a decent enough inn. Despite the larger town the Lord's manor house is smaller, no obnoxiously overblown castle, though Jaskier eyes it with cautious distaste as they pass.

The tavern is warm and welcoming, and for the first time in months Jaskier actually _wants_ to perform; with his recent stint of singing for the countess his voice is miraculously not rusty, and the innkeep even agrees to a couple of meals in exchange for his performance.

He takes to the stage, and it's a heady joy to feel the rhythm of his music spilling over into the street outside, drawing people in as they pass, a flame for the moths.

Geralt sits and broods, and it's just like it always was, and there's an ale waiting for him when he finishes, and then the witcher takes him to bed.

Jaskier throws himself on the bed, regrets it as the impressively solid mattress refuses any attempt at a bounce, and then lounges enticingly, one leg cocked up to show off solid thighs.

"Geralt..." he singsongs, as the witcher putters around the small room, laying out his swords and armour in his usual fastidious manner.

Geralt meets his gaze with an unimpressed eyebrow, but he can see the accompanying slight twitch of lips, and it's not long before he's looming over him, arms folded.

"Did you want something, bard?"

"Get down here and _ravish_ me, witcher."

Geralt is more than happy to oblige, though it's more gentle than they would usually be, still soft and a little tentative after their time apart.

When they're replete, Jaskier's muscles pleasantly warm and worn, he sprawls across the bed as Geralt goes back to his pack, sorting potions and weaponry.

He watches with half-lidded eyes as Geralt pads around the room. When he's arm deep in saddlebags, Jaskier opens his mouth, pauses, buries his head in the pillow and tries again.

"I want you to call me songbird. In bed."

There's silence, and then - "Not until the spell's worn off."

Jaskier grunts, still facedown in the pillow, though it's squashing his nose uncomfortably. "That wouldn't be as fun."

The bed dips beside him, and a large hand settles low on his back. There's an expectant silence.

"I want you to order me. With the spell. You don't have to," and he can feel his pulse start ticking up nervously, after the steady post-coital decline, "But if you'd be up for it I'd like to try."

"Jaskier..." There's concern in Geralt's voice.

"I'm not - dealing with trauma or anything, I just think it would be a shame to miss the opportunity, you know?"

Jaskier finally lifts his head from the pillow to see brows heavy over golden eyes. He grits his teeth, and Geralt looks even more concerned. "I had two months of being told _songbird do this_ and _songbird do that_. I didn't want to do a single thing for that bitch. What I want is to be told to do something I _want_ to do." And he chooses his next words hopefully, as though he's unsure, though he tries not to show it. "By someone who loves me." Geralt doesn't so much as blink at _love_ , and it soothes something in his breast to see it.

They've played this game before, orders and instructions and occasionally punishment (although in Jaskier's mind a good spanking is a very poor punishment indeed) but never with this edge to it. Never when he had no choice but to obey.

"Aren't you concerned I'll be... cruel?"

Geralt looks so hopelessly guilty that Jaskier has to bite back a laugh. He does worry, just a little in the back of his mind. Such a perfectly landed blow plus six months of moping is hard to get over. But - "The spell's already wearing off. I don't want to miss my chance." Besides, he's always had a taste for danger. And he truly, truly trusts Geralt. There's twenty years between them, and one admittedly monumentally stupid breakup hasn't taken that trust away.

And then there's that tiny, tiny, terrified part of him that wants to test it, too. See if Geralt would hurt him, if given the chance. If he knew he could get away with it.

"Tomorrow."

His heart pounds in his chest. "Really?"

Geralt grunts, but it's as good as a promise.

*-*-*-*-*

Jaskier wakes with a fizz of excitement in his gut, and he can't place it for a second, but then he remembers their agreement and squirms delightedly against the witcher who lies next to him.

He earns a grumble for his efforts, and then a giant hand on his head where the braid still sits mussed and untidy. He holds his breath for a second and then blows it out unhappily when Geralt just squashes his face into his chest. "G'rlt, wh' you doing?"

"Go back to sleep." His voice is low and rough from sleep.

Jaskier petulantly licks the skin his lips are crushed against, and Geralt tugs a little at his hair. He bites down in retribution and goading, and Geralt flinches under him, dragging his head back with a rough handful of hair to meet his anticipatory gaze with unimpressed flatness.

"I paid good coin for this bed. Let me sleep."

He tugs against the grip in his hair and Geralt lets him slump back down again. He starts the licking again. "Jaskier..." It's a warning, deliciously dark and threatening. He redoubles his efforts, sucking a trail lower down Geralt's bare chest. " _Songbird_. Stop that."

And oh he feels the tug of the spell, the little nudge as it takes him over and just makes it happen, an empty automation that sends a frisson through him even as he lies soft and pliant above his witcher.

" _Yes_ ," he groans into the scarred skin beneath him.

The muscles below him tense. "You, bard..."

"Yes, dear heart?" He blinks innocently as he looks up, basking in the little curl of Geralt's lip.

With a wordless growl Geralt's above him, bulk pressing him into the solid mattress, but then the weight lifts and he's gone. Jaskier sits up, unimpressed. "Where are you going?"

"Food. Bath. After, I'll fuck you."

Oh. Well, that's alright then.

He rolls out of bed and follows obediently, pawing at his cock to make it a little less obvious.

They eat, and Geralt's knee leans against his knee, and then they bathe, and Geralt's hands slide against his skin, though never below his waist where he most wants them. He catches him looking at least twice, which means the witcher _wanted_ to be caught looking, because Geralt is rarely caught if he doesn't want to be, and never more than once.

When the jitters under his skin are all but unbearable, Geralt finally lifts himself from the communal bath, thankfully empty aside from the two of them, and wraps a sheet around his waist. Jaskier scurries to follow, splashing the water over the rim of the bath in his haste.

In their room, Jaskier scrubs his hair dry and drops his own towel messily on the floor.

Geralt stands in front of him, towel still tight, and Jaskier shudders at the weight of his gaze.

He goes to his knees, one then the other, supplicant for his witcher. Rests his hands on his thighs, spreads his legs wide, though his cock is already rising and doesn't need the framing of slim muscle to draw attention.

"Can you speak, if I command you and you truly don't want it?"

Jaskier shrugs. This new half-lifted version of the spell is as new to him as it is to Geralt.

"Try." His voice shifts into something even more firm and unyielding than usual. Commanding. "Get on the bed."

The order tingles in Jaskier's blood. The potency of the spell has definitely faded, even since yesterday; he feels like he could defy the order if he wanted, but it's easier just to accept it, to accept the way it nudges his body into movement. He rises obediently, but at the same time manages to gasp out Geralt's name before falling amongst the blankets. He clicks his fingers too, for good measure. "Difficult but doable."

"Good." Geralt's voice is a low purr, and Jaskier shivers again.

A last minute niggle gnaws at Jaskier's chest. "Don't, ah. Don't make me crawl. And no sir, just names. Please." There had never been anything sexual about the guard's actions, purely cruel, but still the returning memories of the humiliation burn hot, and he doesn't want that to taint what promises to be a rather spectacular night.

"Understood." Kind, but not pitying, and Jaskier lets his legs splay out invitingly. Geralt's gaze darkens, and the mood shifts. "Room's paid for until tomorrow."

"Someone's feeling particularly virile." A single large step brings Geralt much, much closer to where Jaskier sprawls, grinning, on the sheets. The bard doesn't take the hint. "Wait, is this just all a sneaky little plan to keep me silent for a whole day? Because somehow I don't think-"

"Shut up."

Jaskier's mouth abruptly snaps closed, and his eyes follow suit as he hums. He works his jaw a little, then opens his eyes to stare up at Geralt. The witcher looks back at him with black rimmed in gold; his nostrils flare in the way they always do when he's scenting the air, and the black pools flood wider.

"You smell _desperate_."

*-*-*-*-*

Geralt can feel his cock tenting the front of his sheet obscenely, and from the little eager glances Jaskier keeps giving it the bard is more than aware of his arousal. He's tempted to whip the towel off and sling it in a pile with the one already discarded on the floor, but temptation was always one of Jaskier's weaknesses. Better to dangle it in front of him, as it were.

He's slightly shocked that telling the bard to be silent has worked; it's certainly not had any impact in the past and with the spell weakening he thought it would be the first thing to go. It's exhilarating knowing that he has this power, to silence a man who probably hasn't stopped talking since he first learned to speak.

For a moment he panics and thinks it might be too far - after all, Jaskier's spent the last two months under orders to only speak when commanded - but from the wave of hot lust that drifts through the room, it's not too far at all.

Jaskier climbs to his knees, eyes wide, grabbing at Geralt's hand to draw him close until his palm rests on the soft curve of his jaw. The flush of his skin is like a brand against the witcher's own cool flesh.

Geralt lets him hold it there until his galloping heart slows to a steady canter, and then slides his grip around until his thumb presses against nerve-bitten lips, cornflower blue watching him through dark lashes. Instead of waiting for Jaskier to open his mouth, Geralt drags down on that plump lower lip, revealing sharp white teeth and, when Jaskier licks nervously, the tip of his tongue.

He lets out a pleased hum, and digs his thumb in the gap between his bite, teasing it open, forcing inside with gentle equanimity. Jaskier resists a little, mischief in his eyes, and the sharpness of him catches on the knuckle. It's such a small pain, and yet it still sends a shiver down the witcher's spine.

"Suck."

The eagerness of Jaskier's mouth makes Geralt's knees tremble, tongue and teeth working his thumb as though it's the sweetest tasting thing he's ever had. It's not Jaskier that succumbs to temptation; instead Geralt's free hand fumbles at the towel around his waist, dropping it to the ground, and his cock springs free, hard and sullen red. He grips it in a loose fist, forcing himself to stroke lightly as he watches his thumb sink into the bard's mouth. Eyes fixed on the sight of the thick cock sliding through the witcher's scarred hand, Jaskier redoubles his efforts until his lips are slick and reddened, hands clenching and unclenching on his thighs. He's not been told to keep them there, but he knows better than to reach out.

Geralt watches silently until Jaskier's hips twitch forward unconsciously, and then he hooks the pad of his thumb around the bard's lower teeth, dragging his mouth open wide. Jaskier swallows, spit-wet and panting, but without being able to close his mouth it just pools around his tongue and spills down his chin.

He holds him there, panting and wet, watching him helplessly drool, then pulls away and lets him gulp away the spit and smear it from his face.

The flush on his cheeks has spread down his long throat and lower, rude heat across the darkly haired chest. Geralt spreads his hand there, spanning thick fingers between delicate collarbones, feeling the heave of his bard's breath, quick and shallow. The hand on his cock falls still.

"Alright?"

He gets a nod, though Jaskier's blink is slow and heavy, and pulls his hand away. The bard sways towards him when the pressure lifts.

"Good. Lie down."

Jaskier melts down into the sheets, un-familiarly long hair damp and curled against the pillow, eyes still fixed on Geralt's face as though memorising him. Relearning him, perhaps.

Standing above him, Geralt can't help but take a second to stare down at his bard. He's thinner than he used to be, and his hair too long - though perhaps the reaction when he pulls at the braid might be worth leaving it for a while - but he still has the slim firm legs of a travelling troubadour who can walk at his side for days, the strong arms of a man who spends every hour he can playing and performing and the rest of it holding a scarred witcher close; the chest of a man who can sing and sing and sing and still have room for more love than Geralt knew existed in the world.

The trust Jaskier has in him is too much. After all Geralt's done, after all the cruel things he's said - and not just on the mountain, either - he's somehow still willing to forgive him, to place himself in calloused hands and offer himself up.

Geralt swallows hard. He nearly lost this, nearly threw it all away for nothing at all, for anger and the fear of loss, and then nearly had it taken from him by an arrogant woman who thought she could disobey the rules of magic and enslave innocent people. And after all of it, somehow he's still ended up here, with Jaskier back in his bed, in his life. The wave of gratitude threatens to overwhelm him, burning in his throat, behind his eyes.

"Geralt?" Jaskier lifts up on one elbow, concern marring his brow. Apparently the spell only goes so far at keeping him quiet, now.

He shakes himself, offering a wry attempt at a smile as he squashes down his spiraling thoughts, and trails a hand up the inside of Jaskier's thigh, feeling where hair fades into thin delicate skin and then back into rough curls at the crease of his groin. Jaskier collapses back, though his eyes are still watchful.

Yes, they've fucked twice since the mountain, but they were messy desperate couplings, a combination of relief at a narrow escape and appreciation of their reunion. Now he'll relearn the feel of him, every inch.

Jaskier quivers delightfully under his touch, sensitive flesh under calluses and roughened skin. Across his belly, drifting over too-prominent ribs and up past one nipple as the bard tenses, down past the other and just as he relaxes a quick pinch to make him jump.

"Keep still," Geralt rumbles, teasingly firm, and eyelids flutter at him, but Jaskier obediently quietens his stirring.

He nudges a space for himself between Jaskier's legs, kneeling between those familiar thighs, and skates both hands up his body, fitting thumbs into the creases of him, the dips and divots where hip bones jut or his arse curves beneath him or strong pectorals cut against the tension of broad shoulders.

He counts the scars, too. Far too many, for a pretty bard who should have had a soft life at court, and the swell of fear threatens him again. He shoves it ruthlessly away, instead focusing on the involuntary minuscule twitches of muscle beneath his hands.

Geralt doesn't touch the cock swelling eagerly in front of him. No need to rush, after all.

There's only so long Jaskier can take lying down silently. "This isn't quite what I imagined when I asked you to order me about a bit," he says almost peevishly, and then holds his hands up defensively as Geralt scowls at him, scarred hands dropping from the pinch of his waist to rest heavy on shifting hips. "It's very nice, I'm just making an observation, don't get your breeches in a twist."

"You want more, bard?"

Silky smooth threat and promise.

Jaskier's eyes light up.

"Then, my little songbird, do not speak and _do not move_." The commands bite, the name giving it extra weight.

Licking his lips Geralt bows forward, nudges Jaskier's cock against his mouth, sucking and nudging his tongue against the tip until the tiniest hint of sound curls from Jaskier's chest, and then he takes him deep in a single tight slide, nose pressing against rough hair and musk as his throat contracts around the invasion.

Jaskier groans deep and low but doesn't move, not even the slightest hint of a twitch, and Geralt squeezes approvingly where his hands wrap around the bard's hips.

When he looks up, he can't see Jaskier's eyes, frozen as the man is. He pulls back with a filthy slurp. "Watch me," he orders, and Jaskier's head snaps down to fix his eyes on where his cock meets Geralt's eager mouth.

He's fast and thorough and sucks him tight and he knows if Jaskier could talk he'd be telling him to slow, and if he could move he'd be pulling at his hair, but he can't, and Geralt takes his fill, until the urgent throb of the cock in his mouth warns him to pull away and clasp his hand around the thick base. Jaskier's eyes roll back in his head and a thin whine trails from the back of his throat.

"You won't come until I give you permission," he growls as he relaxes his grip, and Jaskier's eyes blink at him in hazy agreement.

One heft of his arms and Jaskier's on his front, legs still wide. Belatedly he realises he's forgotten the oil, and heads to Jaskier's belongings. "Get comfortable," he orders, and there's a flurry of movement behind him as Jaskier sprawls insolently across the bed, tucking his hair aside so he can watch Geralt with one sharp, bright eye.

He returns with the oil, something barely scented, and once again kneels between Jaskier's thighs.

When he lays a hand on the sweet curve of his arse, the flesh quivers with tension. He pats at it once, then harder a second time as Jaskier squirms. "Be _still_." A third slap gets him nothing but a heavy breath and a pink handprint on pale skin. "Good."

He eases firm cheeks apart, brushing a dry finger down the crease, and though the rest of him is unmoving that tight knot still flinches under the attention.

Teeth in the cork of the bottle Geralt eases it loose, and pours a little of it where his dry fingertip nudges at Jaskier's entrance. The oil eases his way and the bard opens beneath him, his finger slipping inside to the first knuckle without complaint. He tugs at the rim, turning this way and that, testing the stretch of the muscle without slipping further inside as it loosens around him.

Geralt doesn't want to push, doesn't want to ask too much when they're still tentatively closing the gap between them, but Jaskier has always loved a shiver of pain with sex. The fingertip is joined by a second, twisting at the entrance, and then in a single oiled slide he pushes them deep, a true breach of the bard's body as his palm slaps against his skin.

Jaskier's shoulders flare with tension, but the low groan ripped from his throat is nothing but arousal.

Geralt nudges roughly at the bulge of the perineum beneath his thumb, curling his buried fingers to find that sweet mound that makes Jaskier groan in delight, and then squeezes the bard between fingers and thumb as he rubs him inside and out.

Limp obedience keeps Jaskier mostly quiet, but little broken off sounds trickle from his throat, and Geralt can feel the tension of orgasm approaching in the clenching around his hand. He pulls out, watches the flutter of the empty hole as it glistens with oil, but the spell has enough of a hold that there's no tension under the palm he rests on the bard's back, no movement where he's been told to be still.

"On your knees."

Jaskier's on all fours in an instant, although his thighs tremble with his arousal. A broad hand on his shoulders presses his chest to the mattress. "Comfortable?" He gets a quick nod. "Stay still."

He oils his cock, the length burning hot in his grip, and kneels up behind Jaskier. "Stop me if you need to," he commands, although he knows he'll be aware of fear or pain almost in the instant it happens, if it does, but he needs that reassurance, and maybe Jaskier does too.

Jaskier pushes through the spell to gasp out a garbled agreement, the words heavy with effort, and then bites his lip as Geralt nudges against him.

Lined up, cock just slightly breaching to keep his aim true, Geralt wraps his hands around the bard, fingers caught on the ridges of his hip bones, and then hauls Jaskier back onto his cock with enough strength that his arse slaps against Geralt's wide thighs.

Jaskier howls, and Geralt freezes as he checks the air, but the hint of discomfort is overwhelmed by a heady wave of lust.

"Good," he says, and then fucks Jaskier's willing body as hard as he thinks the bard can take it.

It's a punishing pace, the slap of skin against skin loud and Jaskier's heavy breath louder, making little punched out sounds as he bottoms out. It's the quietest Jaskier's ever been during sex, including the times they've fucked in incredibly ill-advised places where silence would be prudent, and suddenly he doesn't want that absence.

"Talk to me, songbird. Tell me how it feels."

And oh, the floodgates _burst_.

Jaskier sobs into the pillows, babbling phrases that sound like _yes_ and _perfect_ and _so fucking big_ , and then just curse words as his voice drives Geralt further.

But he's muffled by the pillow, and Geralt wants to hear his bard sing, so he fists a hand in Jaskier's long loose hair, takes a good grip of it until he can pull his head back without snapping the delicate strands, and hauls him half upright as Jaskier sobs, one arm round his chest to hold him steady.

He holds him there, pinned helplessly in midair, arms limp and his bent legs spread around Geralt's thick thighs, flexing despite the spell and powerless for all that he tries to grip; Geralt fucks up into him, slower now but deep, and every time he bottoms out Jaskier groans or curses or says _fucking yes Geralt, gods I love you_.

The trust, the desperation of him is glorious, and Geralt wants to give him everything in the world, pour priceless gems in his cupped palms and kiss the ground he walks on, but instead restricts himself to barking a single command.

"Jaskier - _do what pleases you_."

He thinks that Jaskier might come, or play at resisting, but nothing changes for a moment and then strong hands curl up around his own where it presses against Jaskier's chest, covering his scarred knuckles and holding him tight.

His breath catches in his throat, and a hot rush burns in his chest as his edge yawns suddenly far nearer than he'd thought.

He drags Jaskier closer, leaning him back against his chest, letting go of his hair to wrap a hand around the thick cock where it swells purple and furious, setting a fast pace as he bucks the bard up into his fist. Jaskier's curses fumble into desperate high pitched yelps and pleas, his lute-strong fingers tightening bruisingly on Geralt's arm, and Geralt bites at his neck and ear before rumbling out, "Come now."

There's a moment of perfect stillness and then Jaskier _wails_ , his body taut as a bow as he clenches tight and spurts across his own chest and then in weaker pulses onto Geralt's fist where it still grips him.

After that, it's just a few thrusts before Geralt comes too, his bard's voice ringing in his ears as the scent of spend and satisfaction floods the room.

Jaskier slumps bonelessly in his arms, and Geralt eases him down onto the mattress, still buried deep but steadily softening.

He offers kisses to every part he can reach, shoulders and neck and hair, and when he runs out of options he shifts until his cock slides free and he can move to see Jaskier's face. There's twin silvery lines from his closed eyes, one heading straight to the pillow and the other running over his nose before ending abruptly. There's no stain of sadness in the air other than the faintest hint of salt, so he brushes the tracks away and kisses the closed eyelids as Jaskier stirs against him, hands groping blindly for his chest.

*-*-*-*-*

Jaskier returns to consciousness with a hand stroking through his hair, which surely must be an irredeemable mess after their activities.

He opens his eyes to see a golden gaze across the pillow. A quirked eyebrow poses a question.

"I'm ok," he says, then reconsiders slightly. "I'm good, very good, but I'm going to hurt in the morning."

Geralt snorts softly, a hint of pride in his expression. "Come here?" he says, lifting an arm. It's just a suggestion, not a command. But it's a suggestion like a bottle of oil left out by the bed, or a full pint left at an elbow, or a snatch of interesting gossip overheard at a doorway. A suggestion which is so much easier to accept than to defy.

Without hesitation, Jaskier closes the gap between them, sprawling bodily over his witcher despite the sweat and come on his skin, flinging his leg across the wide thighs.

Geralt curls an arm around his shoulders, digging his hand back in his hair.

"Enjoy that while it lasts," Jaskier warns, "It's getting cut off later." He'd only kept it through lethargy, after all, and - current state excepted - that seems to be a thing of the past.

Geralt makes a mournful noise and twists the strands through his fingers.

They lie there in silence for a while before Geralt speaks, low and quiet. "Didn't need any of that spell, did you?"

Jaskier snorts into the pillow. "Probably not." He hums quietly. "Think Yennifer'd cast it for me if I asked nicely?"

"No."

Jaskier smirks, and buries his face into Geralt's neck, testing his teeth on the flesh.

"What if I told her it was for _you_?"

He gets a grunt.

"What if I asked her really really nicely and said I'd write her a song."

The silence says, very loudly, _you wrote her one song already and that's plenty, stop writing songs about that ungrateful witch and write more wonderful music about me_. At least, Jaskier thinks that's what the silence would say if he gave it just a little artistic license.

"What if-"

Then there's a mouth on his, and since he's being asked so very nicely he thinks it might be worth keeping quiet after all.


End file.
